A glow of pride suffused him.  The obeisance of the kings of finance was not so sweet to his natural vanity.  “She’s one in a million,” he answered heartily.  “She should have been a man—­and yet we would have lost much in that case—­you, for instance.”  He turned toward Mrs. Marteen.  “I congratulate you,” he smiled.  “She’s just the sort of a girl that should have a good time—­the very best the world can give her; the world owes it.  But aren’t you”—­and he lowered his voice—­“just a little afraid of those ecstatic eyes?  Dear child, she must keep all the pink and gold illusions—­” The end of his sentence he spoke really to himself.  But an expression in his hearer’s face brought him to sudden consciousness.  Quite unexpectedly he had surprised fear in the classic marble of the goddess face.  The woman, who had not hesitated to commit crime, feared the contact of the world for her child.  It was a curious revelation.  All that was best, most generous and kindly in his nature rose to the surface, and his smile was the rare one that endeared him to his friends.  “Let her have every pleasure that comes her way,” he added.  “By the way, I’m sending you our box for Monday night.  I hope you will avail yourself of it.  My sister will join you, and perhaps you will all give me the pleasure of your company at Delmonico’s afterward.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes turning involuntarily toward the girl.  Then the human dimple enriched her cheeks, and it was with real camaraderie that she nodded an acceptance.

His attitude was humbly grateful.  “I’ll ask the Dennings, too,” he continued.  “They’re due elsewhere, I know, but they could join us.”

The curtain was already rising and Gard, excusing himself, found his way to the masculine sanctuary, the directors’ box, of which he rarely availed himself, and from a shadowy corner observed his debutante and her beautiful mother through his powerful opera glasses.  He found himself taking a throbbing interest in the visitors at the loge opposite.  He was as interested in Dorothy Marteen’s admirers as any fond father could be; and yet his eyes turned with strange, fascinated jealousy to the older woman’s loveliness.  Suddenly he drew in the focus of his glasses.  A face had come within the rim of his observation—­the face of a man sitting in the row in front of him.  That man, too, had his glasses turned toward the group on the other side of the diamond horseshoe, and the look on his face was not pleasant to see.  A lean, triumphant smile curled his heavy purple lips, the radiating wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were drawn upward in a Mephistophelian hardness.

It was Victor Mahr.  His expression suddenly changed to one of intense disgust, as a tall young man entered the Denning box and bent in evident admiration over Dorothy’s smiling face.  Victor Mahr rose from his seat, and with a curt nod to Gard, who feigned interest elsewhere, disappeared into the corridor.